


What good’s my cut-glass conversation now?

by jason_todds



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Grantaire being Grantaire, M/M, Modern AU, Trains, Will update tags as story progresses, enjolras being rudely awakened, enjolras really doesn't know how to emotion, hopefully they'll all get their shit together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-16 22:41:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3505451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jason_todds/pseuds/jason_todds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire figures the best thing to do is to get it over with, Enjolras is on a train. </p><p>Neither are really sure what's going to happen next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gordian Knots Of Emotion

**Author's Note:**

> What good’s my cut-glass conversation now? or, as me and my beta know it, the freckle fic. 
> 
> right so I don't know how regular I'll be with updating, i have to focus on school and such but I can promise there wont be any major cliffhangers. 
> 
> This is just a bit of fun, really. I hope y'all find it that way too.

Enjolras sat in an almost empty train car, his bag settled firmly between his feet. His eyes were closed and he had been lulled into a daze by the gentle swaying of the train car.

He heaved a sigh, air gusting from his lungs.

Suddenly a shrill ringing pierced the quiet. Enjolras’s eyes shot open and he scrabbled at his pocket, where he could feel his phone vibrating rather violently.

His eyebrow rose infinitesimally when he saw the caller ID. Something struck him as slightly different about it. He pressed ignore and opened up his contact list. Scrolling through, he could now see that every name had a tiny picture next to it. Some had little symbols, like Comberferre, who appeared to be represented by a moth, and some had pictures of people.

He paused at Grantaire’s name; he could barely make out what the picture was. It hadn’t been much clearer when he’d first noticed it. Curiosity peaked, he selected Grantaire’s name and tapped on the picture to enlarge it.

His breath stuttered.

It was a rather lovely photo.

The expression on Grantaire’s face was oddly open, soft in a way he had rarely seen. One of his hands, perpetually stained by charcoal dust or pigment was wrapped around a chipped white mug and his smile was barely there, a parenthetic curve. He leant against an old wooden bench, his hair unruly and his much loved green sweater hugging the gentle curves of his body.

Enjolras wondered, rather suddenly, why he was putting so much care into noticing the details of a photograph. Or, rather more importantly, of Grantaire. This thought did not, however, manage to banish the strange heavy feeling that had settled beneath his breastbone.

“What am I doing?” he asked out loud. A woman sitting a few rows away from him gave him an odd look. He shook his head, ignoring her.

He was unaccustomed to feeling anything but anger around Grantaire. If he had given it a little more thought, he’d have realised how untrue that was. In actual fact, he felt many, many things around Grantaire. He just didn't notice them, overpowered by righteous fury as they so often were.

He needed to talk to someone. He knew he was terrible at emotions. Or rather, he recognised that his friends thought he was terrible at emotions. He didn't really pay much attention one way or the other. Which as we know, really only proved their point.

Before he could ring anyone his phone started vibrating again, he glanced at the caller ID. It was Grantaire again. He hesitated, and then accepted the call.

“Apollo,” said Grantaire. He sounded breathless. Enjolras scowled.

“Don’t call me that,” he said. “What do you—“

“Enjolras. If you could hold off scolding me for a few minutes, I need to tell you something.”

Enjolras was not used to being told to shut up. Even in a relatively nice way.

Grantaire took his silence for acquiescence and sucked in a deep breath, before speaking very fast.

“Okay, so, hypothetically let’s imagine there’s these two people. And one of these people is so in love with the other person that sometimes he can physically feel his heart hurting, and the other person hates him. Hates everything he stands for. And the first person, well, he can deal with that. Most of the time. But sometimes he just gets this swell, this veritable tsunami -“

Grantaire breaks off suddenly and Enjolras is about to tentatively say something, when he hears him mutter, " _Jesus christ, when the actual fuck did I turn into Jehan?_ " under his breath. Despite himself, Enjolras bit back laughter.

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Right so. Where was I…?”

Enjolras’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “Veritable tsunami of something,” he deadpanned.

When Grantaire spoke again he sounded flustered. “Uh huh. Okay. So. He gets this wave of, of longing, and it’s always triggered by the most mundane of things. Like the way his hair looks under certain lights, and his hands, dear god the hands.” Grantaire sighed. Enjolras imagines he could feel his breath blowing out of the phones speakers.

“Most recently,” Grantaire continued. “It was the freckles.” He sounded almost subdued now. His words gradually becoming softer and softer, and it made Enjolras all too aware of his pulse thrumming beneath his skin. Which was, he couldn’t help but notice, scattered liberally with freckles. He was about to reply, when Grantaire’s voice interrupted his train of thought.

“They remind me of stars, you know?” Enjolras didn't know. “He has whole star systems painted across his skin. He’s just— He holds a whole universe inside him. And every time he speaks, every time he breathes, sings, argues, especially argues, he lets a little bit more escape. He could light the whole world up, I think.”

And then, even more softly, “I believe in him.” It’s those last words that hit Enjolras like a punch to the gut. His tongue, usually so agile, stuttered.

Grantaire laughed softly over the phone, the sound made harsh by the static-y speakers. “Hypothetically, of course.”

Enjolras just sat for a moment, the words ‘I believe in him’ caught on endless repeat. Cynical Grantaire, nihilistic Grantaire, believed in something? In someone? In _him_?

“I think we passed hypothetical a while back,” he said, for lack of anything else to say. He looked down at his free hand, it was clenched in his red pea coat. He released the tension and stretched his fingers wide.

“Exactly how drunk are you right now?”

All he could hear is static. Grantaire didn't make a sound, he didn't say a word. And somehow that struck Enjolras harder than anything else could have.

Grantaire hung up.

Enjolras slowly pulled the phone away from his ear, and stared at the blank screen. He may have been terrible with emotions, but he was pretty sure he had just fucked up. Astronomically.

“I fucked up,” he said out loud. The woman who had given him an odd look before just gazed at him solemnly, before nodding once. Enjolras closed his eyes briefly. Before saying, with feeling, “ _Fuck_.”

. . .

Enjolras sat for a few long moments, turning his phone over and over in one hand. The other was tugging on a wayward curl, something he often did when trying to puzzle through a piece of particularly challenging rhetoric.

The conversation with Grantaire kept turning through his mind, like a song looping over again and again. He honestly had no idea what to do, but maybe he knew someone who might.

He flipped his phone screen side up and pulled up the contacts list, he hesitated for a moment before tapping Comberferre’s number. It rang a few times before he picked up.

“Enjolras?” Comberferre asked. It sounded like he’d just woken up. “What is it, are you okay?” He could hear something rustling, bedclothes maybe.

“I’m fine, I’m just… Grantaire called me?”

Comberferre was silent for a few beats. “Is that a question or a statement?” he asked with a trace of amusement.

“No it's— _I don't know_!” Enjolras was frustrated at his inability to explain. He curled his free hand into a fist and pressed it against his thigh. He heard pacing.

Comberferre sighed. “Explain, tell me what happened.”

And so Enjolras explained.

When he’d finished, Comberferre sighed again, a long exhalation. Comberferre seemed to sigh a lot these days.

Enjolras could picture him, one hand pressed against his temple and the other cradling the phone to his cheek.

“Right,” began Comberferre. “So here’s what I’m thinking; Grantaire put you in a very awkward situation and I will be having _words_ with him about that, but perhaps you were… a little harsh.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to protest, but Comberferre cut him off. “No, listen.”

“You know the drinking is a touchy subject, not to mention one that had very little relevance to what was being discussed. You lashed out, Enjolras. You do that when you don’t know what to say.”

It was Enjolras’ turn to sigh. “I suppose I did,” he murmured.

 “How do I fix it?” he asked, a plaintive note entering his voice.

Comberferre hummed thoughtfully. It sounded slightly mocking, “Apologise?”

Enjolras huffed. “Right, but what about…” He trailed off.

“Grantaire confessing his undying love for you?” said Comberferre dryly.

“Yeah,” Enjolras cleared his throat. “That.”

“Nothing you aren't comfortable with.” Comberferre told him with finality. “You are under no obligation to return his feelings.”

There was a pause. “How _do_ you feel towards Grantaire?”

Enjolras shook his head. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “I think… more than I used to?”

“Okay,” said Comberferre, “Just, Enjolras?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t try to give him more than you have.”

Enjolras closed his eyes. He could see the picture of Grantaire, smirking and sleep-soft, in his minds eyes.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“Goodnight, Enjolras.”

“Thank you.”

Dial tone.

Enjolras sat back in his seat.

The loudspeaker announced the next stop. His thoughts were slightly more in order, but not much. He slipped his phone into his pocket and toyed with the strap of his bag.

Grantaire. Strange, loud, contradictory Grantaire. Enjolras tried to untangle the knot of emotions lodged between his ribs. If he were Grantaire he’d laugh and call it Gordian. But he was not Grantaire, and as it was he pressed his fingers together and stared out the window, his eyebrows pulled together and his eyes half lidded.


	2. apollo-gize

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tons of thanks to my beta, i put her through a lot and without her this would be a mess of punctuation, atrocious grammar and weird phrasing. 
> 
> also, i refuse to apollogize for the chapter title.

Enjolras had a dilemma. 

On one hand, he could go home. And sleep. It was a tempting prospect, but he had a feeling that even if he went home he'd just lie awake all night. He'd spent too many sleepless nights staring at his ceiling, he didn't want to add another to the list.

He'd even memorized the patterns of the stick-and-glow stars that Jehan had lovingly applied to it. He didn't know if they were meant to be actual constellations. 

Grantaire would probably know. 

Which brought him to the second option. He could slog his way to Grantaire's apartment and apologise. The prospect of seeing Grantaire made him twitchy, mostly because of his confession.

Because really, what had possessed Grantaire to tell him that over the phone? 

Of all times, and all places, why now? 

He looked longingly in the direction of his flat, and turned on his heel. 

"I am going to regret this," he muttered as he shoved his hands in his pockets, one of them curled around his phone. 

. . .

Enjolras was purposeful as he strode through the meandering city streets. He caught glimpses of faces through windows and heard snippets of conversation, laughter rolling out of open doorways. 

Every now and then, huddles of people stood beneath the pools of street lamps, hands cupped around cigarettes and lighters. 

He was walking past one such group when a hand curled around his bicep, and a cloud of smoke was blown unceremoniously into his face. 

Enjolras spluttered and waved it away as he pulled back from the hand. It followed him, and after it came a grinning youth with hair as dark and smooth as a snake’s skin, and eyes with all the lightness of spring about them, but none of the warmth. 

“Montparnasse,” Enjolras said, his eyes still watering slightly. “What do you want?”   
He yanked his arm away again, and this time Montparnasse let it go. 

“Oh nothing, really,” said Montparnasse, tucking his hands into his pockets and rocking backwards on his heels. 

Enjolras smoothed the wrinkles from his coat sleeve, and met Montparnasse’s laughing gaze with a haughty one of his own. 

“I’ll be going, then.” He’d taken a few steps away when he heard his name. 

“Enjolras!”   
Criminals, he thought viciously, and their flair for the dramatics. (And once, rather memorably, glitter.)

He didn’t say anything, but he waited for the criminal to continue all the same. Montparnasse barked a laugh, and said, all grease and slime, “If you see Eponine, tell her that her father wants to see her.”

Enjolras didn't respond other than a tightening of his jaw. He continued walking. 

Laughter followed him down the block. 

 

. . .

 

After that particular confrontation, Enjolras really didn’t want to do anything but go home and sleep. He wanted to call someone and be picked up and just not have to worry about what was inevitably going to turn into a complete disaster of a situation. 

Enjolras stopped, just for a moment and leaned against the wall of a building. It was brick and he could feel the cold seeping through his clothes. He ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. He was tired. 

It was a almost a luxury for him, being able to not think for at least a moment. But after far too short a time, everything came rushing back in. 

With a wordless exclamation he shoved himself upright and brushed off his coat. 

“Right,” he muttered to himself. “Best get this done.” And if he was nervous, he did not acknowledge it. 

 

. . . 

 

Jehan saw him before he saw Jehan. 

Enjolras tilted his head back and waved when he heard Jehan’s shout. He was perched, as he so often was, on the fire escape. A hand rolled cigarette held between his first two fingers and grubby with dirt. 

Jehan liked to smoke while he tended the little garden he’d cultivated high above the city streets, though as much as he loved the plants, they did not tend to flourish. So every time Enjolras saw the garden, it was different. 

Jehan waved back at him enthusiastically, he called something unintelligible and disappeared back into the apartment he shared with Grantaire. 

Enjolras smiled, only a little rueful, and made his way towards the front of the building.

He took one last deep breath before firmly pressing the buzzer. The door clicked open almost immediately, with Jehan’s cheerful voice telling him to “Come right up!”

But when he’d finally reached their floor, Jehan was leaning against the closed door, and his expression was wary. 

“Enjolras,” he said, standing straight and pulling Enjolras into a tight, albeit brief, hug. His hair smelt like lemon, and it tickled Enjolras’s chin. 

Then Jehan stepped back, and scrutinised him. “Why did you come?” 

“Do you know what—“

“What happened? Yes, I heard all of it.”

Well. That would explain the wariness. Jehan was notoriously protective of his friends, and Grantaire especially. 

“I need to talk to him,” Enjolras told him, finding it increasingly difficult to meet Jehan’s shrewd gaze. 

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” replied Jehan. 

Enjolras straightened up slightly, his rolled his shoulders to try and ease the stiffness that had built up when he had hunched them against the wind outside. He rephrased. “I need to apologise to him.” 

And then Jehan smiled, before pushing the door open with a knock of his shoulder. He stepped aside and standing in the doorway was Grantaire. 

He’s heard the whole conversation, realised Enjolras. Jehan had planned the whole thing. 

He shot him a look as heat began to rise in his cheeks. “That was very underhand.” 

Jehan shrugged.

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Do you, uh, do you want to come in?”

Enjolras suddenly felt very awkward. He was sure there were waves of heat emanating from his face. 

“Yeah,” he replied. “That’d be good.”

Jehan darted inside. He scooped a lighter and pack of cigarettes from the kitchen counter and came back into the hallway. “Perfect night for a stroll, I think,” he announced cheerily. 

He gave Enjolras a light shove towards the door and sauntered down the hall. If he heard Grantaire’s call of “Real subtle Jehan!”, he did not acknowledge it.

“Right. Come on, then,” was what Grantaire said when he turned back to Enjolras. He walked into the apartment with Enjolras following closely behind. 

When they reached the living room Grantaire abruptly stopped and wheeled to face Enjolras. “Go on then.” 

Enjolras blinked. Grantaire watched him with folded arms and eyebrows sitting low over his eyes. 

“I…” he floundered for words. Despite the speeches (or perhaps in spite of them) he had rehearsed in his head over and over on his way here, he had not a single idea of what to say. 

“I’m sorry…?” he offered. Grantaire raised an eyebrow. Enjolras mentally slapped himself upside the head. 

“What I said,” he began again. “What I said was wrong. I didn't know how to respond to your, uh, confession?” He frowned slightly, not sure if that was the right word. Grantaire had gone very still. 

Enjolras continued. “I lashed out at you, I shouldn't have said what I did, it had no bearing upon what we were… discussing.”

Grantaire laughed at that, a short harsh sound. It didn't sound very much like laughter at all. “We didn’t discuss very much at all,” he said. “It was more me spewing unwanted…” He grimaced and gestured with his hands in a way that seemed both complicated and helpless. “At you.” 

Enjolras was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know how you wanted me to react. Want me to react.” 

Grantaire laughed again. “Neither do I.” 

“So why,” asked Enjolras. “Did you say it?” 

“I guess I was sick of not saying it,” was Grantaire’s incredibly frustrating response. 

“Do you get off on making cryptic and irritating remarks?” Enjolras snapped, the length of the day finally getting to him. He was tired and now, suddenly, angry. 

Grantaire’s smile was a little sad, and a little resigned. He didn’t really need to reply. Enjolras made an angry sound, he raked a hand through his hair and turned away from Grantaire. “What do you want from me?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Nothing,” he replied. “Everything.” 

Enjolras looked at him. “I can’t give you either of those things.”

Grantaire looked faintly puzzled at that. Before he could say anything, Enjolras spoke again. “But if you wanted,” he said slowly, “we could try to find some sort of middle ground?” 

The expression on Grantaire’s face could really only be described as thunderstruck. “What exactly,” His voice sounded as though it wanted to shake. “Do you mean by middle ground?”

Enjolras thought about it for a moment, and then he asked, “Can I try something?” 

Grantaire nodded, a little frantically. Enjolras took a few measured steps forward. He was now standing very close to Grantaire, and he had to tilt his head back a little in order to look at him. His eyes were very wide. 

His hands were tentative where they settled on Grantaire’s shoulders. For a moment he just studied him. He looked at his parted lips and the curls that looked like something Enjolras would very much like to touch. 

For once, he indulged himself. He slid one hand up the curve of Grantaire’s shoulder and into his hair. Grantaire’s eyes were dark. 

Enjolras took a breath, and reduced the distance between them further. He left a few scant inches between their mouths, and waited to see if Grantaire would close them.

“Can I…?” Grantaire’s voice was soft. Enjolras felt the warmth of his breath and wanted. 

When he nodded, He felt Grantaire’s hand ghost up his spine, barely touching. The other curled around his hip. The heat of it made something coil in the base of his belly.    
There were no fireworks when Grantaire kissed him, but there was a gentle bloom of warmth that spread through him, and his skin seemed sensitive where Grantaire was touching him, sparks amidst steady embers. 

They pulled apart, after a while, and Enjolras breathed in deeply. He didn’t move away.

Grantaire’s eyes were still closed. 

“If that’s middle ground,” he said, “I’m pretty okay with it.” 

Enjolras smiled and stepped back a little. He let his fingers linger in Grantaire’s hair a moment, the curls twined around his fingers like grape vines. 

“I should go,” he said softly. “But I’ll call you tomorrow.” 

Grantaire nodded. His face was unguarded, and his eyes when he opened them were very warm. “Okay.” 

Enjolras hesitated, before stepping forward again and brushing a chaste kiss against Grantaire’s cheek. 

“Tomorrow,” he repeated, before heading to the door. The last thing he heard before he closed it behind him was Grantaire’s voice, soft and awed, “Tomorrow.”


	3. Combeferre PoV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ask and ye shall receive
> 
> its super short, sorry about that. and sorry for my very long absence, life has been hectic. 
> 
> not an excuse, but i do have to focus on academic type things, no matter how much i'd rather be doing this. 
> 
> anyway, here:

Combeferre wasn't asleep, though he’d very much like to be. The aftermath of Enjolras’ call had left him antsy. He wondered what Grantaire was trying to do, and more than that, what Enjolras would actually do. 

As predictable as Enjolras usually was, Grantaire turned him into a wildcard. Combeferre allowed himself a rueful smile. 'Predictable’ wasn't a word people often associated with Enjolras. 

His phone vibrated in his pocket and the tinny strains of some unidentifiable pop song began to play. Courfeyrac’s idea of a joke. 

With little ceremony he swiped across the screen and pressed the phone to his ear. “Jehan.”

“Hey ‘Ferre!” 

Combeferre could hear music thumping in the background of wherever Jehan was. “Where are you?”

He could hear the smile in Jehan’s voice, sly and sweet in equal measure. “Somewhere,” he said. “Or maybe nowhere. Depends on how you look at it.” 

Combeferre accepted that fairly easily. Jehan was a poet. He said strange things sometimes. A lot of the time. 

“Do you want to know how I look at it?” he asked. “Or are you calling about Enjolras and Grantaire?”

Jehan laughed over the phone. There was something wild in his voice, the first bite of ocean-heavy wind during winter.   
Of all his friends, Jehan was the most unknowable.

“I’m not going to ask how you know that, because I knew you would.” 

There was something of a running joke among Les Amis that Combeferre was superhuman, his powers undisclosed, but a little something like SuperMom. Combeferre had no idea how he’d managed to convince them of his capability, especially when most nights he was so distracted by reading whatever it was he was reading, that he forgot to feed himself.

Combeferre cleared his throat. “That, and Enjolras called me in a panic.” 

Jehan sounded amused, “Of course.” There was a pause. “I just tapped my nose.” 

Combeferre laughed. “I could tell.” 

“What do you think will happen?” Jehan asked, seriousness creeping into his voice. 

Combeferre ran a hand through his hair. “That’s up to them.” 

“Yes. Though that’s not really what I asked.” 

“I know,” Combeferre said with a faint smile. Jehan huffed. 

“I’m going to head home, see what the aftermath is.” 

“Let me know if there’ve been any casualties.” 

Jehan laughed, and then hung up. Combeferre set the phone down and sighed very deeply for a very long time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you all for the lovely comments i've gotten, and also my beta. thanks you. bless you, you wonderful human being.

**Author's Note:**

> title from here: http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/late-night-ode
> 
> the poem has no relevance to the story, i just liked it. Can you picture me shrugging? i'm shrugging.
> 
> Also, if anyone actually reads this, would you rather I continue on with the story or write what just happened from Grantaires perspective? Or Comberferres? Or hey, both?


End file.
